


The Shadow of Your Smile

by ninemoons42



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Celebrities, Character Study, Charity Auctions, Community: qldfloodauction, First Time, Food, M/M, The Philippines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-04
Updated: 2011-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-16 22:35:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames and Arthur take a job in the Philippines. Arthur is preoccupied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shadow of Your Smile

  
title: The Shadow of Your Smile  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninemoons42**](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)  
pairing: Arthur/Eames  
warnings: Schmoop! Eames leaving teeth marks in Arthur! [That idea comes from [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/ohfreckle/profile)[**ohfreckle**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/ohfreckle/) , by the way]. A plot ripped from the [Philippine] entertainment headlines! The Manila Bay sunset!  
This is my fic for [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dremiel/profile)[**dremiel**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/dremiel/) , who won me at the [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=qldfloodauction)[**qldfloodauction**](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=qldfloodauction) fundraiser [original thread [here](http://community.livejournal.com/qldfloodauction/335.html?thread=12879#t12879)]. Her prompt ran along the lines of: "I would LOVE an E/A story set in the Philippines!" I've mucked around with her parameters a bit, though....  
Assume spoilers for the movie in this one, including what Eames was wearing on the plane.  
disclaimer: I don't own the original story or the characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.  
summary: Eames and Arthur take a job in the Philippines. Arthur is preoccupied.

  
“Well, that doesnʼt make sense,” Arthur says, and he raises an eyebrow when he walks into the First Class lounge.

Eames looks up from his newspaper and his coffee and looks him up and down. “What doesnʼt make sense? The airport? The job? Your life?”

“Very funny, Eames. Also, in case you hadnʼt been listening when we got the briefing. Weʼre going to the Philippines. Tropical muggy humid country? Sunny and warm? Whatʼs with the long coat? Also, paisley. That scarf is going to get you killed, and please donʼt get me started on that atrocity of a tie.”

Eames chuckles and goes back to the newspaper. “I think youʼd better look at your weather forecasts, Arthur. Oh, no need for you to worry; the way you dress should be appropriate, if a little drab. Like you said, tropical country. Where do you think all the colors and patterns come from?”

“You couldnʼt have stuck with something aesthetically pleasing, like _chirimen_?” Arthur mutters, but he sits down and he pulls up a weather app on his mobile and - “Low twenties. In February? They should be just about coming back up to the thirties....”

Eames turns a page, frowns as he reads another article. “Global warming, maybe. Hope youʼve packed appropriately.”

And thatʼs an innuendo, it always is, with the very distinct manner in which Eames always pronounces his vowels and his Fs and Ps, and Arthur would be too busy being torn between irritation and attraction but there is the boarding call and he has to content himself with simmering and being nonplussed.

No one ever told him about this particular hazard of the job.

As they taxi out of Sea-Tac Arthur glances across the aisle, to Eames settling in with a pair of headphones and an e-reader, and he thinks that he might have taken the wrong lesson entirely from Dom and Mal.

///

Arthur wakes up dry-throated and in need of the head, and he just barely manages to sidestep the flight attendant. He orders a lemonade, hoarsely. He washes his hands and his face and he looks carefully at himself in the little cubicleʼs mirror.

Itʼs a familiar face, the same face he sees every morning and evening. A faint hint of stubble creeping in around the edges, but thatʼs what seventeen-hour flights do to you. Arthur scratches thoughtfully at his chin.

But the thing heʼs looking for, the dark shadows under his eyes, are thankfully almost gone. Itʼs been a hard two years. Malʼs death, Cobb going on the run, the Cobol jobs, meeting Saito, the Fischer job, and _then_ another six months on the run because everyone in the world was gunning after the only people crazy enough to actually attempt inception – for the _second fucking time_ in Cobbʼs case – and succeed.

After deplaning at LAX Arthur had turned right back around and booked a ticket to Paris. Heʼd told himself that he was doing it to make sure that Ariadne was all right, that no stray Cobol goons would come gunning for her.

What he carefully hadnʼt been telling himself, of course, was that Eames had booked that flight, too.

On the other hand, it had been more than worth it to see the curtain drop behind the attendant, to suddenly have a lapful of shocked/relieved/happy/changed Ariadne. To tell Saito to his face that he was a very different kind of tourist. To have Eames there, so they can smile at each other, so they could actually savor the thrill and the victory of what theyʼd all just accomplished.

After that, after all the running and hiding, all the jobs seem to be a little less complex. Arthur redoubles his research efforts every time and is closing in on a new and better process. Heʼs worked together with Ariadne on several other jobs, and she has started showing the skills required not only of an architect but also of a possible forger, too – and that had necessitated bringing along Eames, partly so that he could take the extractor role and partly so that he could help train her.

Unfortunately, Ariadne is also still a student; visionary architect or not she still has to pass Milesʼs classes. So theyʼve had to leave her behind for this job, as she has projects to complete.

It will be Arthurʼs first time in the Philippines. Eames claims to have been there before.

There are so many ways in which this could go wrong, Arthur thinks, as he settles back down in his seat and drinks his lemonade.

He drifts off again, and he thinks of Eamesʼs smile.

///

Arthur raises an eyebrow when the first thing Eames does when he wakes up is ask for the date and time. He checks his wristwatch, and then he fishes something out of his pocket and Arthur, out of long habit, averts his eyes. He reaches for his red die, fingers the sharp edges thoughtfully.

When they walk out of Ninoy Aquino International Airport the sun is shining high in the sky – but there is also a chilly breeze blowing in, and Arthur gratefully turns up the collar on his jacket, rolls down his sleeves and buttons up his cuffs.

Eames chuckles and reknots his scarf – and then raises his eyebrows when he sees a sign in the Arrivals area: _Marwood and Withnail_. “Well, thatʼs very strange,” he says, and nods at Arthur. “One, our client has unusual tastes, and two, she has a very bad sense of humour.”

“So she doesnʼt know how _Withnail and I_ ends, big deal,” Arthur snorts, but he has to work hard to quash the little flare of worry in the back of his mind, because he does.

Eames pats his shoulder, frowning, and greets the driver.

///

One week of research and rehearsal later, Arthur starts awake in his hotel room. Heʼs been napping at his desk again, and thatʼs not good, but at least tomorrow morning theyʼre going in for the job.

There is a quiet knock at the door.

Arthurʼs laptop says 4:30pm, Manila time.

Glock at the ready, he peers through the spyhole – and then he growls irritably and opens the door.

Eames strides in, dressed casually: denims and a nice white shirt, black canvas sneakers. Thereʼs a white box in his hand.

“Do you have anything to report,” Arthur snaps, adrenaline still thumping through his veins, “or are you here to annoy me?”

Instead of answering, however, Eames smiles – and yanks open the curtains.

The view is interesting: afternoon sunlight slanting in through the high-rises, cars and pedestrians and buses crossing to and fro. Arthur knows that rush hour starts in thirty minutes.

Everyone is in a hurry.

“Come on,” Eames says, and Arthur looks up to see that heʼs pulled the leather jacket from the hooks near the door. “Iʼve gotten someone to drive us out, and provisions.” Eames brandishes the box. “We have to get to the waterfront in an hour or less.”

“Iʼm working, Eames, and weʼre getting ready for tomorrow or have you not noticed?”

“I have, actually, and from everything Iʼve seen weʼve been ready for this since yesterday. When we come back weʼre going to do a full dress rehearsal. But whatʼs important right now is that you and I manage to make it to Manila Bay before dark.”

Arthur looks down again at his laptop. Quarter to five.

And the next thing he knows is Eames throwing the leather jacket over his shoulders and dragging him out the door. Eamesʼs hand encircling his wrist – he could throw him off, easily, but he doesnʼt feel like doing anything else but watching how his muscles are rippling under the thin shirt.

The driver is the same woman whoʼd greeted them at the airport, and sheʼs driving the same van. Eames sits up front and they keep up a rapid-fire chatter. Eames grins a lot.

Arthur closes his eyes and lets the conversation, most of which is incomprehensible, wash over him.

He thinks of Eamesʼs hands, Eamesʼs smile, the easy play of emotions in his eyes. That would be a liability in most forgers. But Eames is of course not like most other forgers, and what he shows in his eyes is always just enough to fool the mark, to let him slip past the projections. The same eyes that have smiled in approval (at Ariadne), in amusement (at Yusuf), in irony (at Cobb and Saito both).

The same eyes that look so confused and clouded whenever heʼs looking at Arthur.

Heʼs jolted out of his thoughts by the van coming to a smooth stop, and Arthur looks up.

It looks like theyʼve crossed into another world entirely, and Arthur has to fight the urge to roll the red die.

“Weʼre in time – thank you,” Eames says to the driver, and he opens the door and hefts the white box absently in his hand. To Arthur: “This is Manila Bay. Or, more accurately, this is the Manila waterfront.”

The promenade is mostly empty, but there are families walking here and there, couples walking with their children. A man on a red bike pedals by; there are three red balloons tied to his handlebars. Everything is moving in the steady sea breeze, and Arthur jams his hands inside his pockets for the cold. He makes no move to sweep his bangs out of his eyes, and he squints through his hair at the clouds and at the calm water. There are ships anchored here and there. A large training vessel, a huge ferry just pulling out into the harbor. Birds flap and call overhead. Brine and smoke and fumes on the breeze.

The sun is already hanging low in the sky.

When Arthur blinks and comes back to the present, Eames is sprawled out on a nearby bench, and heʼs smiling and talking to a few grimy-faced children. Theyʼre looking at him oddly, but the mood melts away quickly and then theyʼre grinning back, with all their hearts, and thereʼs a broken shout of “Thank you!” when Eames pulls something out of the box, and theyʼre gone, running off to wherever.

Eames looks up, tilts his head at Arthur. “Yes?”

“Nothing,” Arthur says, and he sits down, eyes at the horizon. Golden light washes over the sea and the sky as the sun touches the distant horizon. A burnished world. The noise around him fades away.

For a moment, he and Eames are alone, with the box between them. There are two compartments in the box: one is filled with Danishes and the other has slices of ham and salume and sausage. “How did you know,” Arthur says around his almond-cheese Danish, “that this is what I like?”

“Youʼre not the only one who does research, now are you? Had a devil of a time looking for those, though; they were a little taken aback at the hotel when I asked for that type.”

Arthur chuckles. “No oneʼs heard of them outside of Nigella Lawson.” And then they sit together and watch the sunset in silence.

A chilly evening replaces the sun, and the lights spark on up and down the promenade. Arthur licks the last of the sugar glazes off his fingers.

Eames is chuckling quietly next to him.

“What,” Arthur asks, but heʼs too lulled by the sunset and the pastries and the cool night to be snappish.

Eames looks like heʼs about to say something else, but all that comes out is, “You eat like a child, when youʼre not on the job.”

Arthur lets himself laugh. “I swear we are all turning into an absolute hive mind,” he says, and he grins until heʼs sure he can count the lines crinkling around his eyes. “Ariadne over burgers. Yusuf when he talked me into eating couscous and mutton stew.” He dimmed his smile. “Mal, too. She couldnʼt cook much, but, wow, the way she made roast chicken....”

Eames, too, has a little nostalgic smile on his face. “I remember. Just about the only thing she didnʼt burn, yeah?”

“Yeah. And she told me once that it made me look different.”

“Good different or bad different?”

“I never actually found out, or she wasnʼt interested in telling,” Arthur said, and hunched into his jacket. The sea breeze picks up again. “I asked her, from time to time, and she always just smiled at me and said, find out for yourself. I choose to think that she meant well, now.”

“Thatʼs a natural reaction,” Eames says. “I meant well, too.”

“Noted,” Arthur said, and smiled to himself, to Mal. He looked at Eames and nodded. “And thanks.”

///

The ride back to their hotel is quiet and subdued, and it takes a little longer than the first because now they really are navigating through the worst of Manila traffic. Arthur considers ordering something to eat from room service, but five minutes after he settles back in at the desk Eames is back, and this time heʼs carrying their PASIV device, and he sets it up on the carpeted floor.

“I did promise you a dress rehearsal, didnʼt I,” he says, and Arthur raises an eyebrow because since when did Eames sound apologetic on the job? He is snarky, he pushes everyoneʼs buttons for shits and giggles, he cuts through the bullshit as easily as he smiles.

Arthur shakes his head and pulls out his first-aid box, preps them both for cannulation. The timer is set for fifteen minutes. “Are you sure thatʼs not cutting it too fine? Our mark is, well, he does tend to talk.”

And the answering smile is the one that cuts like a knife. “We can set it for twenty tomorrow; weʼre just practicing now, and are you really going to try and make this whole thing too difficult?”

“Point,” Arthur concedes, and Eames is pressing the button.

And, yes, itʼs just as planned. A room looped in on itself, glass walls looking out on an infinity pool. Itʼs not actually possible to go out and swim in it. Low lights and votives in holders everywhere, sofas and couches and everyone on them chattering.

Arthur idly changes the music into the Utada version of “Hymne à lʼamour”, because he can, and because heʼs still thinking of Mal.

Someone is singing along in perfect French and Japanese. Heʼs appeared in roughly the center of the room. A slender man, a perfect white shirt, a skinny tie and a tailored waistcoat. His hair falls past his shoulders, is caught up with a ribbon at the nape of his neck.

The projections stop and stare and listen as one.

Arthur catches his breath, and the party resumes, and when heʼs sure he can trust himself he walks up to Eamesʼs forge and offers him his arm.

“Hello,” he says, politely.

“Come in with friends?” Arthur asks. If nothing else he can at least try to keep to the script.

“No, actually, more like friends-of-friends,” he says, and he smiles.

Arthur thinks, irrationally, of Eamesʼs grin and his crooked teeth.

“Actually, I just received a message that said I should show up. This is your party, right?”

“Yes. Do you know who I am?” Arthur asks, playing at being casual.

“Of course I do. But wonʼt your girlfriend....”

“Not here. Out of the country.”

Theyʼre in a secluded corner, now, and thereʼs a curtain that Arthur draws. “Afraid?” he asks. This is still in the script, as weird as that is.

The forgeʼs lips tremble, just a little. “Maybe?”

“Donʼt be.”

And Arthur is still playing the role of their mark when he pulls the other man close and kisses him. Itʼs chaste and fleeting, and he has to smile when the reaction is a sigh and an ironic little smile. “So itʼs true? Youʼve gone over to their side?”

“Come and win me back, then,” Arthur says.

They kiss, again, and then someone murmurs “Iʼve been trying to, actually,” and then Arthur is no longer kissing the boy, because itʼs Eamesʼs mouth under his, because itʼs Eamesʼs hands clutching at him.

Arthur thinks of the sunset, of all the trouble that Eames may or may not have gone to just to get that arranged for him, knowing it was his first time in the country. The box half-full of Danish pastries. The odd compliment about his eating habits.

And he hears what Eames was trying to say.

He vanishes everything outside the curtained nook. Silence falls like a thunderclap.

Itʼs difficult to extricate himself from the kiss – and Eames is a damn good kisser – and he finally settles for putting his hands on Eamesʼs broad shoulders and squeezing, once, hard. Eames pulls away and looks confusedly at him.

Their breathing is the only sound in the night-enclosed space.

“Letʼs wake up,” Arthur says, and he draws his sidearm. “I want this conversation in the real world – and yes, Eames, I do want to kiss you for real, so get with the program here.”

“You only have to ask, darling,” Eames murmurs, and he smiles.

Arthur fires.

///

Arthur opens his eyes and pulls out his lead into the PASIV.

Eames is sitting at his feet, smiling up at him, and Arthur catches his breath and grabs at him, hauling him up onto the bed. The first kisses are wild and needy, disbelieving, and Arthur does not want to stop.

As soon as Eames releases him, rough stubble scraping his skin as he kisses down Arthurʼs throat, he starts babbling: “Eames, you...will you bite me? Want your teeth on me, all over me, you have no idea what I think about every time you smile.”

“You can tell me,” Eames says, breathless and teasing, but he complies, and Arthur nearly shouts when he bites down around his collarbone. Eames licks across the bitten area next and Arthur groans deeply. Too much, too much.

When they can breathe, when the first flush passes, they dig deeper into each other. Arthur maps Eamesʼs tattoos with his fingers and his mouth. Eames covers Arthurʼs skin in patterns of bite-marks. Eames, strangely enough, is just as ticklish behind his knees as Arthur is. Arthur strokes gently over the hairline lines of long-faded wounds, over the scars inflicted by bullet and knife and fist and, in one terrifying instance, crowbar.

///

“You have _got_ to be having me on.”

Arthur jerks out of sleep, and he reaches for his gun, but he carefully doesnʼt point it at Eames. “Problem?”

“Not really? I donʼt know?” Eames holds out his mobile phone. “Read that.”

 _Iʼm sorry, he and I will be unavailable today. Press conferences. We can try again tomorrow?_

Arthur grunts and then he looks up at Eames – and he smiles.

Eames smiles back, slowly. “Oh I think Iʼm going to like where this is going.”

“Weʼll see,” Arthur says, and he drags Eames back into bed.

 **fin**


End file.
